Suddenly, you become everyone’s fat, sloppy, drunk and obnoxious uncle who shows up an hour late for the family gathering. It’s no longer about the family, now it’s about you and you are certainly going to have your say because … who on earth doesn’t want to tune into your wisdom? Especially at this delightful moment.

And so, in keeping with the spirit of the evening, or at least your spirit in this moment, you start spewing lines and spewing lines.

You GOT this.

And then … you do it. You cross the line.

EEEEERRRRRRTTTTT! CCCCRRRAAASSSSSHHHHH.

Everything hits the wall. The party stops. People stop. The music stops. The chatting stops. You almost feel your heart stopping. Everything seems to be in …

SSSSLLLLLLOOOOOWWWW MMMMOOOOTTTTIIIIIOOOOONNN.

It’s excruciating.

Not only did you crash the party, you killed the party. You crushed the mood and mutilated the vibe. You crossed that line … because you thought you were being cute. You had the spotlight and took it a little too far.

You got a little too comfortable.

There’s something about it that’s like playing Russian Roulette. Everyone knows it’s very dangerous which is what makes it fun. It’s like walking a tightrope or dancing on hot coals. You know the stakes are high, but since you’re high on Gin or whatever, you say …

“Let’s DO this!”

It’s like driving your car to the edge of a cliff. You’re playing around with friends in their cars. The car that gets closes to the edge of the cliff without falling over … “wins.”

Of course, the car that gets too close and crosses the line … loses BIG. Party over. Story OVER. Dead people tell no tales, but in this case everybody knows what happened. The investigation is merely a formality.

Somehow, it starts with the concept of dancing. When you’re sowing your wild oats and feeling your sexy self, you start to dance. You feel like “You’re the Man!” or “You’re the Woman!” And so, you start dancing. Literally dancing.

You start dancing in front of that line. If you’re a dude, you sway your hips and if you’re a chick, you swing your hips and say …

“Yeah, Baby, Yeah!” “I GOT THIS!” “Look at ME!”

By the way, alcohol need not be on the scene. I’m not necessarily blaming alcohol. One’s own ego can be intoxicating enough, No? Is that why they say pride comes before a fall?

When you’re crossing the line, nobody can tell you a thing. Not anyone. And if they do utter something out of concern for your best interest, you respond by saying …

“HAVE A SEAT PLEASE.”

You’re feeling it and yes, you’re going to do it. Whatever “it” may be, it’ll be one of the dumbest things you’ve ever done.

I could be wrong, but isn’t crossing the line almost always the result of excess? I mean, you’ve either said one word too many, had one drink too many, took one step too many or made one move too many.

In your mind, people are actually egging you on. And they very well may be. However, watch them flee once you’ve crossed the line. This is how you can tell who your real friends are.

It’s all in the name of fun, but does fun have to mean excess? Once you’ve lost a limb, it’s not so much fun anymore.

You thought you were cool, but now you’re a fool. In fact, you were probably a fool before you were cool, which was probably the problem. You wanted to be cool and saw your opportunity. And so, there it was. You took it.

There’s something in us that makes us want to do it - especially when the lines are drawn for us.

You can give someone the entire world - and I mean ENTIRE WORLD - to play with and let them have fun, but once you tell them not to cross this tiny little line (that anyone can barely see) because it will mean their doom, what’s the first thing that they do?

They disavow the ENTIRE WORLD of fun and cross that tiny line. It’s beyond predictable … it’s clockwork.

It starts with that arrogant and insidious dance. And you don’t really know it until you’ve done it. By that time, it’s too late.

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